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fish and childrenSummer sailors
in the park
vacation, brief, from war
They look down from a little bridge
see fish and children smiling
Sailboats in the pond
Day is bright and world is green
Soon they must return to grey
Might come back no more
Lancelot Price 2014 July 29
newThe withered people wander
onto the train at conductor's command
They're leaving this land of wonders
for the hoped for dreams of summer and
I hope they bought a ticket for return
ClockThe grandfather clock's face turned down, sad. There must have been a bad moon. Time is an unhappy business, abstract, misunderstood. The clock had stood in the same spot for 200 turns around the Sun. And it never became more fun, than it had ever been. Clock remembered the families, the parents, the children, and also the childless, the unmarried, the loveless singles. He was good at remembering; it's what he was for. Happy times and sad times. Times. Time. What a sad business.
Lancelot Price 2014 July 26
Ghost wind blows
the last leaves down
Moon so big
the sky disappears
Corn so dead
it's ground for Johnny
If Johnny ever
comes marching home
Lancelot Price 2014 July 24
AncientThe Ancient One watched. From the very beginning of All, he watched. He observed as the Universe of universes arrived, as the stars came to be, as the galaxies formed, as the worlds arrived. All made of Universal stuff transformed. Seemingly endless changes from things to other things proceded unimpeded. The great game was beautiful. Entertaining. Fun. And then came the holes, the black, the always empty. Worlds were hurled to Darkness, places without places, without event. Where nothing happened. Not ever. Where Ever was Not. Slowly, oh, so slowly, the Universe of universes faded and disappeared. And was gone. The Ancient One had nothing more to watch and cried timeless and empty tears.
Lancelot Price 2014 June 21
The floor above the doorway lions.For a photo, click on the following link, and then click on the photo on the far right of the wiki page
I used to live in this house, the one at the left of the photo, at the intersection. On the floor above the doorway lions, with its 'floating' tower on the front corner. It's one of five houses on what is called Werne's Row. Werne was an antiques dealer who built a house for himself on the north end of the block and separate houses for each of his four children. It was a stylish part of town way back then, but by the time my family lived there, the style had gone down along with the property values. At least two of the houses had been converted to stacks of single-floor apartments. Rent must have been cheap if wE could afford to live there for a few months. Churchill Downs was only a short distance away to the west of us, and the Kentucky Derby was a part of my childhood and my adult memory and character.
I accidentally came across this
freshFresh is the flower in the morning
that wilts away in day.
So pale and delicate
It cannot stand against the sun
You and I
we are one
Lancelot Price 2014 July 7
the endThe man in the shadows stirs from his rest and leans forward. As his head and arm and hand come into the light, he turns the page in front of me and I play what he reveals. His face remains hidden as he returns to shadow. I've never seen this music before; I've only lived once, and do not know the end. Nor even the beginning. And will not know end or reason until I've lived it all. Being the slippery thing it is, reason has always escaped me. This music is written by a hand that is never seen and may not even ..... be.
Perhaps I write the music in my dreams.
And yet I play.
Lancelot Price 2014 July 7
The Coast Is ClearThe coast is clear. The moonlight beach is empty and without a shadow. We see no watchers but ourselves. No enemies. The submarine will come this early morning to bring our friends. It might be better if there were clouds to hide our darkness from the dim clear light, but there are none. At least we may watch for watchers. War makes us do strange and dangerous things in the deeps of our minds. This is surely one of them. The enemy has done this to us, mAde us scheme and fight.
A doubt remains. Is it not we who made war and not war that made us do?
The sub will be here at 0300 hours. Till then we wait. And think. Then the secret invasion begins.
The coast is clear.
Lancelot Price 2014 July 7
the truth about growing up
1. It's easier when you don't think.
1. It starts early,
on a cloudy day when you recall
the 'childhood memories' of
two summers ago,
that's when you start your backslide into
2. On the bright side
you won't notice this until you're
good and ripe in age,
so maybe it doesn't matter
3. That tightness in your chest?
The feeling that you're not ready
to take on the rest of your life; it
4. It stews in the pit of your stomach
makes you doubt,
but there will be days when you look back
on the mountains you climbed -
the raging rivers you crossed -
and you'll have a sneaking suspicion you were
more prepared than you thought.
5. There's nothing like your own bed.
6. Laundry will never smell right
without mom's sweat and tears.
But you still have to separate lights from darks,
keep the zippers pulled tight
and the buttons unhooked.
7. There is comfort in your parents' presence.
8. Things change
the future gnaws and rips
Stranger's funeralUnder the clouds
Under the rain
Staring at the coffin
At a stranger's funeral
We're all alone
Feeling the storm
But not the pain
For he's but a stranger
And the graves around us
Are just there
Keeping us company
During this empty moment
LullabyHush, my baby,
Be still, don't cry.
Lay with me
A little while.
Close your eyes,
Slow your breath.
Hear your heart
Inside your chest?
Your heart is strong,
It guides you well.
Be sure to listen
To what it tells.
I hear him now,
Outside the room.
It won't be long,
He'll find us soon.
Now close your eyes,
Slow your breath,
And rest your head
Upon my chest.
CarolineYou loved the fire
of rogues -
imperfect men who shot up
the endings of the day
and drank down
too much beauty.
And like one of them,
you bellied with rebellion,
felt his tense seed
toil where women
and craved his notoriety.
Poor girl -
his verses won the day
and the call of words
was too fickle a lover
for any constant star.
Don't blame yourself -
are more attractive
and all poets are
Darkest MoonI celebrate my right to live;
To the dismay of some, perhaps
It should be noted
These words I write, however true
Are only portions of the moon
I’ve decide to shine light upon.
But who am I to preach respect?
Who Am I to preach equality?
An advocate for re-personification
Of the female gender
But exhibits cannibalistic characteristics
Within dark spaces.
I am a shadow
Hidden within an Eggshell, painted pink,
Waiting to hatch.
Is the darkness
The night brought upon us.
things to tell you before i leave for collegeto mrs hatcher:
i promise that one day i will write that poem you asked me for
(the only thing you ever asked me for)
and i will finally tell you that you deserve
so much more.
to mr. walker:
i promise that i will not pity you.
i promise that i will not envy you.
i promise that you will always be part of my forget-me-nots and marigolds.
i promise to always be grateful.
i promise to be careful.
i promise to be crazy.
i promise that i will remember what it feels like to be needed
and what it feels like to let someone who needs you down.
i promise that i will never resent you for asking for help
and that i will always be there when you do.
i promise that even sixty years from now,
i will not be surprised to find a letter from you in my mailbox.
i promise to always remember what it felt like to be young and crazy with you,
how scared and lonely we were.
i will remember that we both survived it,
and that we'll survive this, too.
it was a broken sense of beautifulhis smile was like dust caught
in sunlight; more like a dreamy state
of being than reality, like the half-
remembered yesterday that still haunts your
memories because you
didn't want to forget how it
we'd lie on the floor with
slats of light shot across the ceiling, drinking
in the atmosphere
with windows propped open by
books and yellowed pages,
and by the time
we wandered into sleep, we were drunk instead
smell of roses --
he was a broken kind of beautiful, a
beautiful kind of flawed; love-letters, anonymous
and never sent littered
the dusty floorboards beneath his
of what we were before
love found it's way
back around; hours passed in a sunset haze
as my fingers ghosted over words
he'd written half-asleep, ink smudged on his fingers --
they say the music
comes when your heart's about to break, more
like a whimper than a bang; but i've
never heard a song so
sweet, and this sense of lovely has found it's home
inside my bones --
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